


(help me) tear down my reason

by charleybradburies



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Arguing, Artistic Liberties, Bathing/Washing, Begging, Blow Jobs, By which I mean I've taken some, Creampie, Deepthroating, Eventual Fluff, First Time, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has a Big Dick, Inspired by Music, Internal Conflict, M/M, Male Slash, Manhandling, Oral Sex, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Smut, Teasing, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:29:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22583326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charleybradburies/pseuds/charleybradburies
Summary: Geralt doesn't want to hurt Jaskier. That directly conflicts with Jaskier's goals.my whole existence is flawed / you get me closer to GodTitle(s) from Closer by Nine Inch Nails.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 16
Kudos: 651





	1. you let me complicate you

**Author's Note:**

> _"Ok but.....Geralt hating the way people see some barely-controlled brute and hate and fear him for it and Jaskier being entirely ready to be like "that's so fucking hot my only thought rn is you splitting me in half""_
> 
> My original idea was way rougher than what this turned out to be, but I still like this so here it is.
> 
> Please enjoy, kudos, and comment!!

It takes some time, but eventually Jaskier pulls out of their impulsive kiss, lips wet and red, chest heaving in front of him as he tries to regain his breath. He leans into the brick of the wall behind him, fingers weaving themselves into Geralt's still-damp long hair around his neck, trying to pull the witcher after him; Geralt doesn't quite have the willpower to move from where he's standing, with his mouth still close enough to kiss, but he's not careless enough to progress as he can feel Jaskier wants - or Jaskier's body, at the absolute least, and _fuck_ , just the knowledge makes him want that progression even more, too, so much it nearly hurts. 

All the teasing, all the lovers, all the bruises, Geralt wants it - wants _Jaskier_ \- all to himself...but words of wisdom from so long ago echo - oh, so long ago, Geralt could argue they're not relevant anymore, but he _hears_ Vesemir's voice and he _sees_ the first man he ever hastily almost-had pushing him away in pain _he'd_ caused - and he sees this man he cares for far too much, leaning against a castle wall, smiling and waiting and wanting, and he forces himself backwards, just enough for Jaskier's face to fall. 

"Fuck," he mutters on instinct, and Jaskier's brow raises, as though to mutter back _that's the idea_. His hold on Geralt's hair loosens slightly. 

"I - we can't," Geralt starts, even though it feels like a deep pit of dread, the stomach-turning pain of betrayal, to have let them come even this far only to insist they turn back, to look his almost-lover in the eye and...what, _lie_? They could do quite a great deal, but Geralt doesn't think either of them could handle the aftermath. 

He hates to think the particular descriptor, but it fits too well: Jaskier looks positively petulant.

"Oh, what, you going to lie to me now, again?" _That_ stings, stings like the slice of a thin sword. "Say you don't _want_ to fuck me? Stand there, with that hard, _lovely_ cock right against me and say you don't _want_ my mouth on it? _Please_." 

There's some desperation there, and a very purposeful thrust towards him, where their bodies are still close enough to meet, but there's anger, too, frustration Jaskier is holding onto, and it mingles with lust to permeate the air that's all too stuffy now. 

But no, Geralt can't say any of those things, he can't lie quite like that. 

"It's too likely I'll hurt you. I cou-"

"So hurt me," Jaskier says, like it's the most obvious answer in the world, interrupting Geralt's statement of great caring - which really would have taken a lot of him to say, and it's a bit of a relief to not have to monologue about this, but if anyone deserves that from him it's Jaskier, but now-

" _What?_ "

"If you can't fuck me without hurting me, I'll get hurt. I want it," Jaskier states, almost and not quite an elaboration, enunciated by half a chuckle, like it's _amusing_ that this is the matter at hand.

Geralt has many things he might imagine saying to that, but none of them are close enough to speakable words for him to do anything but look at the bard in confusion.

"I know that's not what you expected," - Jaskier elicits a grunted _hmm_ \- "but I've wanted for long enough to be rather done with your _touching_ but _overbearing_ protectiveness."

Geralt knows he shifts to _look_ surprised, but he doesn't quite choke out the scoff he'd like to. Jaskier didn't seem to realize how much _trouble_ he got into, how much trouble he _was_. 

His hands, the right lifted to Geralt's chest and the left draping around to the small of his back, made that excessively clear. Geralt had gotten a chance to put pants back on after the very tense bath he'd had moments ago - even though they seem utterly useless now, tight and a bit sticky against his thighs - but no shirt, and it's a very specific sort of intoxication to _feel_ just how much Jaskier enjoys the opportunity to touch him in this context, without the excuses of baths or healing. 

"And, yes, I _know_ you could absolutely _split_ me in half, or choke me _very_ hard, or _pound_ the breath straight out of my lungs, or...do any number of very dangerous, very powerful things, but really, Geralt, how _blissful_ a way to go!" 

It's quite possibly the maddest, most maddening thing he's said, with all the enthusiasm of a half-dressed man who legitimately does not give a shit if someone else in this castle hears him entreating the witcher, the Butcher of Blaviken, to fuck him to death, because even Jaskier - especially Jaskier - has known better than to speak of Geralt's capabilities, his capacity for violence, for destruction. For all he comments on fucking _everything_ , he only talks about Geralt's contract victories in terms that are positive, dramatic, or both. He writes and shares songs that paint Geralt as a hero, even having witnessed the gory truths of a witcher's life. 

Geralt will never understand it, but perhaps he can learn to enjoy it, he considers, as Jaskier's right hand travels up his chest to his shoulder and down his arm, fingers stroking scars with only enough force not to tickle and the hand giving an appreciative squeeze. Still, Geralt keeps his own eyes from roaming downwards, knowing full well that if he lets himself look it will be that much harder not to touch, and if he _touches_ he doesn't know that he can manage not just _taking_ and he wants to ignore that that's what's being asked of him.

"I've _seen_ you kill, Geralt, seen you dance with your swords and rip foes limb from limb and be ruthless, vicious, _brutal_ , and I couldn't have kept watching and writing about it if I didn't _enjoy_ it. I _love_ caring and thoughtful and giving you more than you know or would believe but..."

Times that Jaskier truly seems to lose his words are few and far between, so Geralt dares glance at the bard's eyes - not wise, but in some respects Geralt feels quite weak - and they're filled with wonder and lust and something he doesn't have the current mental faculties to name. 

Yet somehow, somehow, he reads it well enough to feel that this _permission_ , this _plea_ , isn't just desperation for release, isn't ignorance to the extent of the harm that could come to him, but is honest and unfettered and, if it's remotely possible to be so in matters like this, pure. 

Jaskier's never been afraid of him, even though he's felt fear around him, even though he's seen Geralt teeter on the edge of being monstrous, and he saw that only a few hours ago and it was the bath following that kill that precedes this and... _and_.

And Geralt lets out a growl, deep and dark and desperate - and Geralt's quite sure that his grip bruises Jaskier's hips when he _lets_ them grab, lets himself press forward once more and take and _give_ a fervid kiss, and he knows it's giving because he can feel Jaskier smile, and pull him closer, and melt though his bare back is bracing against cold brick. They're hard and sweaty and still half-dressed when Jaskier moves to undo Geralt's pants, but he purposefully slips his hand a bit lower and it undoes _Geralt_. 

Geralt pulls out of the kiss again, and sees a flash of hesitancy in his partner, whose hand swiftly flutters upwards, though it doesn't actually leave Geralt's body. Geralt doesn't answer the hesitancy, just scoops him up, a task of little effort, with his left hand right below Jaskier's arse and his right steadying the bard at his back. Not five seconds later he's _tossed_ Jaskier onto the bed, legs just barely dangling off the side and surprisingly, only a small, needy, whimper escaping his lips. Geralt picks up the small bag with salves and oils and deposits it on the closest bedside table, and when he steps back all of Jaskier's momentary hesitancy has dissipated, and he's sat himself up to grab eagerly at Geralt's pants. 

Geralt lets him, this time, keeping his own hands roaming over Jaskier's arms and in his hair as he proceeds _expertly_ to press kisses down Geralt's stomach and slip his pants off in a way that's both swift and too slow but tantalizing enough not to be stopped, to take Geralt's cock in his small, beautifully calloused hand and lay kisses on his thighs as he stroked, moving closer to pressing those kisses along the shaft.

 _Now_ , Geralt wants to say it's too slow, to grumble about how Jaskier had pulled him in talking about roughness and pain and that's so far removed from what honeyed ensnarement _this_ is, and then the bard sneaks forward to kneel and looks up, blue eyes twinkling with the look he gets when he's about to sing a raunchy song, and he catches both their voices in his throat, spreading his mouth around Geralt's head without breaking eye contact, breaking that focus only when he shifts to pushing himself to take it as deep as possible, which is somehow deeper than a self-aware Geralt would have asked of a partner, and groan-inducingly enjoyable. He moves back and forth multiple times, taking down a bit more each time, even as his mouth and throat visibly stretch in a way Geralt wishes didn't make him think of some unhinged monster. At one point, Jaskier pulls back some of the way, far enough to swirl his tongue most of the way around the cock, and Geralt's hand clenches where it rests at the back of his head.

Jaskier pulls off, taking a strand of saliva and precum with him, and licking it up, which he makes look positively _filthy_ , especially with his hand still wrapped partway around, _especially_ when paired with beautiful eyes that are already watering.

"You can push, you know," he says, in a tone that's desirous and a bit teasing. "We're not so strapped for coin that I can't rest my throat a few days." 

Somewhere in Geralt's mind he knows that's truly wild, knows that even someone enthusiastic can be pushed too far, but still his hand grasps Jaskier's hair a little bit more firmly. 

Jaskier strokes him again.

"Of course, if you don't _want_ to push, that's also perfectly fine, I just wanted to confirm that my mind is unchanged, which you might have assumed, but-"

"Do you think it's possible that I could fuck you hard enough you _actually_ shut up, bardling?" It comes out teasing, a bit sensual even, not just annoyed, and lends itself to a small grin on Geralt's part. Jaskier purses his lips accordingly, cutting himself off midsentence.

"Well, if anyone could, _you_...I'd love to feel you try." 

Geralt hauls him back up from the floor to his full height, shoves him back onto the bed, hastily drags down his ridiculously nice pants, and climbs up on top of him, leaning over to grab his chin and hold him close for a kiss. Geralt pins down a hand that had been reaching for him, and can feel the whine vibrate Jaskier's chest as he kisses and sucks to leave what he anticipates will be rather visible marks for the days to come.

(Their hosts had thought it so strange that they intended to share a room, a bed, a bath - they might as well clarify for them. It's not like they'd found another witcher close by to deal with their area's werewolf problem in short order.) 

Jaskier moans his way through Geralt's kisses and bites, a smile on his face all the while, even as his need is mounting.

" _This_ singing, I quite enjoy," Geralt whispers before he moves further down from Jaskier's shoulders, and an offended gasp sneaks in between the bard's otherwise happy noises. Geralt laughs against his skin, then bites, sucking a hickey at his waist, where his pants would sit. 

Jaskier whines. " _That's_ going to hurt tomorrow." 

Geralt meets his eyes, grabbing his side for a moment purely to keep touching. "You did tell me to hurt you," he says, deadpan. 

Jaskier scoffs. "I think you're well aware that _hickeys_ weren't what I was thinking about when I remarked that you could split me in half, Geralt." 

Geralt sucks another hickey onto him, faster and with more pressure, more of a point he's making than a loving mark this time. 

And then he pushes himself up onto his knees, and pulls Jaskier up towards his lap a moment later; he accepts a messy kiss, keeping it as he maneuvers them so can lay Jaskier's head on an actual pillow and letting himself be drawn down to laying entirely above Jaskier again, this time with his own body in between his thighs.


	2. you can have my everything

Geralt's weight leans down onto Jaskier, who, for his part, is continuing to pull Geralt as close as humanly possible, seemingly hoping for even closer. They're both hard and desperate but even with Jaskier's statements of desire, Geralt intends to keep some semblance of control; just because the bard doesn't seem like he'd object to nearly anything didn't mean Geralt should actually test that, let alone today, the very first time he's blessed with the feeling of Jaskier panting against him. 

The room had already felt stuffy, but he's sweating again, full of heat and need. Jaskier's hands have been running through his hair, holding, pulling - tangling, probably, but he'd be lying to say he cared - long enough that it's likely been dried from its earlier state, and their tongues have made it impossibly deep in each other's mouths. Geralt can taste himself in Jaskier's, and it enunciates the selfish craving that's seeped down to his marrow, to _be_ inside, to have him, once and for all, well enough he wants no one else, ever, to be in Jaskier's bones like the bard has mysteriously made it into his. If he answers Jaskier's request for forcefulness, he thinks he might manage it, and as much as he intends to focus on making this _good_ , he can barely wait.

Even so, he doesn't know how long it's been - a minute, an hour, he could not estimate, for his entire focus, entire world of the time being, is him and the man he's pressing into the bed beneath him - but at one point Geralt does actually pull his head up and hands away, facing a shaky, frustrated whimper from Jaskier before he's managed to relocate his lips to the bard's neck and one hand to his torso, the other moving from fisting sheets up near the pillow down to those by Jaskier's side, hoping to steady himself more than his legs can do alone. 

He sucks yet another hickey, the harshest of them, placed where it'll be the most visible, listening to and reveling in the whines that he drags out while he keeps his traveling hand gentle against Jaskier's chest and stomach, getting a tremble out of him, too, before reaching down and finally wrapping his hand around Jaskier's _very_ hard cock. The next tremble is stronger, then, and Jaskier's whimpers turn to something that sounds more like a choked sigh; Geralt stays fairly gentle for now, familiar enough with human physiology to know it won't be long for him now anyway. He kisses down Jaskier's chest and stomach quickly, then leaves a single kiss on each ivory-toned inner thigh, drawing out a surprised gasp when he then brings his tongue to where his fingers are, eagerly drinking in the strengthening scents of intoxicating lust and salty sweat as the tip of his tongue travels up Jaskier's length. 

"Ah, fuck me," escapes Jaskier in a needy exhalation, and Geralt smirks against him then gives a flat, "not yet."

"Oh, you're horrid," the bard replies, with absolutely no fire to the remark, and Geralt chuckles lightly, "hmm." He copies the swirling motion that Jaskier had used on him, but with the difference in size he's able to swirl his tongue around nearly until he's bottomed him out, the tip of the cock back in his throat and Jaskier's hands tightly gripped on the things nearest to them, the right in Geralt's hair and the left in the sheets, both getting tighter still as Geralt uses hand and tongue both to coax a string of beautiful sounds from him. He doesn't imagine it counts as either shutting up or singing, but on this occasion he relishes the noises. 

Announced by a louder moan, Jaskier reaches release inside Geralt's mouth, salty and warm and a bit sweet, pelvis raised to press him deeper until he's finished and pulls off with a pop. His grip on the sheets is given up, but not his grip on Geralt's hair, and he does his best to motion his partner back up his body, a request answered quickly, for a _sloppy_ , joyous kiss, Geralt returning another gesture with his own hand twining itself in some of Jaskier's brown locks as Jaskier wraps his free arm around Geralt to ensure their fronts are pulled flush against each other. 

"You're going easy on me," the bard murmurs, too breathless to make himself sound _too_ displeased. 

"Am I?" Geralt returns, words right into Jaskier's mouth, forcing himself to sit up and break away from his bard's grip before Jaskier can pull him into another kiss, as much as he knows he'd enjoy that. There's clearly something in his eyes, too, or perhaps it's Jaskier's own eagerness, because the bard reaches for the bag on the bedside table without so much as asking, and takes the liberty of being the one to rifle through it for something he deems a sufficient lubricant. Geralt is privately surprised at the ease with which he allows him this; he leans his weight back on his legs, taking it away from being directly above his knees, and runs his hands up and down Jaskier's thighs. 

Jaskier pushes himself up to lean forward enough to hand Geralt one of the yellow-toned oils from the pack - it might be olive, or a mixture, but Geralt doesn't recall, and while it won't work quite as well as fats or something specific to the activity, it will work well enough - and settles back down on the pillow with his arm stretched straight so he has the slightest ability to run his fingers around Geralt's hard cock as the witcher slicks up his fingers. 

He loses any intention in keeping his grip, though, the moment Geralt moves his own hand down past _his_ cock, caressing Jaskier's balls for a moment and then reaching his hole. Geralt hasn't so much as touched the spot before Jaskier's groaned a "please," something somehow both growled and soft, and at this point, that's enough to convince him to press in with one finger. 

He's tight, and Geralt would verbally confirm that some movement is okay, but Jaskier is _grinning_ , and pushing his legs up to reveal himself even more, and Geralt follows his lead, finding that the grin remains even as his moaning becomes what might be better described as squeaking. Jaskier tosses his head back to the pillow, back arching slightly, a flush of color spreading through his skin - to match all the marks Geralt's left on him - and Geralt takes the chance to think on how _gorgeous_ he looks this way, a thought he actually voices without another spared to whether it's unusual; for everything it's worth, Jaskier beams at him. 

He shoves his hand forward again - allowing Geralt the few seconds it takes him to realize Jaskier wants him to _hold_ it, and chuckling when he realizes and obliges - and then groans, "more." Geralt's brow raises without conscious input, and Jaskier squeezes the hand he's now holding. 

Geralt adds an adjacent finger, pushing in slowly again at first and increasing speed as Jaskier pushes back; his own cock, still hard and still resting just atop Jaskier's pelvis, feels that quite acutely, just as Jaskier's does, beginning to get hard for the second time. Geralt curls his fingers upward, catching one of the bard's moans as a gasp half-fulfilled, stoking that particular flame with his strokes. 

Perhaps out of desire or perhaps from the benefit of practice Geralt would prefer not to think on, Jaskier loosens more quickly than he'd anticipated, and it doesn't feel like particularly long before a third finger is a possibility; his own stifled desperation is immensely glad at the feeling of its addition, and at Jaskier, arching his back and croaking out a heartier groan, squeezing their joined hands again. 

Geralt does his best to focus his attentions on his very specific motions, believing that Jaskier will inform him when change is to be asked of him, and at most a couple minutes later, he's proven right by the sensations of their hands being moved to where it's easy for either of them to stroke one or both of their cocks. When their hands move apart, Jaskier grabs at the oil that they're making use of, and starts to open it again - pointedly, with his hands suspended over his pelvis. Geralt meets his eyes, trusting his own to be filled with the same lust he sees looking up towards him; he pulls his hand out of Jaskier and puts it out in between them, letting Jaskier be the one to squeeze out some more of the oil onto his already slick fingers. 

Jaskier pushes up onto his forearms and watches Geralt as he strokes himself for a moment, then repositions them both to make it as smooth as possible a slide into the smaller man with a slow push. It's soon not enough for the bard, and he lays back to give himself the leverage to hook his ankles around the backs of Geralt's thighs, moving as though his own exertion might drag Geralt all the way into him, but perhaps anticipating that his begging and his _oh-so-needy_ expression will actually do the trick.

To be fair, he's not wrong. 

Geralt lets himself push much of the way at a rate faster than he would have thought comfortable for Jaskier, but Jaskier's lips fall back into his smile once he's going quicker, and widen when he's as fully seated as he can be, and Geralt curses, because if _anything_ is going to make him lose further control it'll be the _sight_ of Jaskier _smiling_ at him for every instance of force.

As such, it's only a few thrusts after he's begun that Geralt starts to add some more power to the movements, and with Jaskier giving signs only of pleasure, Geralt lets himself shove away some of his fears in favor of centering everything around his bard. Jaskier does his best job of wrapping himself around his witcher, not allowing for the possibility Geralt might move away with haste, and when Geralt feels Jaskier's fingers clenched at his shoulder, nails pressing in and - hopefully - leaving marks, he leans in, dipping himself back down into a kiss and pushing out Jaskier's legs so that he can. He feels Jaskier hard against him again and tight around him, Jaskier throwing his arms around him again, Jaskier smiling and moaning into his kiss again; and then comes that small break for air in which the breath of another plea, for "more, Geralt, please, _harder_ ," is exhaled right onto his lips, and he feels his restraint seemingly just...evaporate.

Now, _now_ , he fucks into Jaskier, deep and unrelenting, hands gripping hips, letting himself indulge in the sweet experience of it all, a blissful few minutes - the scents of happiness and lust, thick and mingling with Jaskier's soaps, the sounds of their two bodies, wet and wanting, moaning and joining together inelegantly, the melting and melding of an inherently sweaty coupling as facilitated by this soft bed and warm room they've been given for a few days, Jaskier's tight arse and loving smile and _all_ of him that was _Geralt's_ to have. 

Without giving away any desire for Geralt to slow, Jaskier spends himself on his stomach, mouth gasping out the pleasure and the rest of his body tensing and relaxing with it, hands reaching behind Geralt's thighs again as though to insist he stay inside. Geralt moves slowly now, keeping moving for his own sake but still unwilling to pound forward with abandon. He knows the feeling of sensitivity after finishing and he _wants_ to be respectful of that and yet -

"Come inside me, Geralt."

Geralt is as weak as ever to oblige them both, planting his hands at Jaskier's sides again and speeding up his thrusts until Jaskier's glorious noises pull him over the edge of orgasm, too. He's deep in as it washes over him, and Jaskier is clinging to him, and he pulls out to the realization that things will never return to the way he'd thought they needed to be. 

He presses softer kisses over as many places as he can touch, some of which are starting to bruise already, and Jaskier runs a hand through Geralt's hair again. Geralt makes note of what a mess he looks, and while part of him enjoys the sight, they've both gotten covered in sweat and oil and cum and they'll feel so much worse off in the morning if he does nothing; he moves back and off the bed, hating how Jaskier's face falls, even though it keeps some curiosity, and then he scoops the bard up again, to another lovely little gasp. 

The bathtub isn't the cleanest it could possibly be, but it's still full of lukewarm water, and Geralt is not about to ask some poor servant to personally bear witness to how wrecked the witcher and his bard are, so it will do for the evening. 

He deposits Jaskier in the tub and scoots in behind him, noting that Jaskier chooses not to move as far forward as normal, having no reason not to let himself be right up against Geralt. It's all the better, really, for tonight it's on the witcher to clean him, instead of their usual other way around. He's as tender as he can be, knowing much of his partner's skin will be tender as well. 

Jaskier leans into his touch happily, humming one of his love songs, and Geralt shoves away his thoughts of being so terribly undeserving of such behavior from him in favor for kissing his shoulders and holding him as he washes them both off. Lukewarm feels chilly quite quickly, so he gathers Jaskier up in towels to dry him before letting him crawl back into bed. Jaskier insists on drying him, though he'd already done so earlier, and he pulls him into a series of soft kisses as he does. 

They get back into the bed, and Geralt lets himself curl around Jaskier, closer than he's ever let himself admit he's wanted to be; Jaskier's arms wrap around his, holding him in place, and for once, he doesn't intend to protest.


End file.
